


her blessing on my brow

by sevenofspade



Category: Ancient History RPF
Genre: Alternate History, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 06:10:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13117683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenofspade/pseuds/sevenofspade
Summary: Hannibal went to Iberia.





	her blessing on my brow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this. 
> 
> The title comes from Sarah Williams' [The Old Astronomer](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Old_Astronomer).

As the ship approached Melqart's columns, Ummabaal's words seemed to echo in the Mediterranean wind. _Flee Rome, my son, as Elissa fled Tyre_. She sounded reproachful. He had not fled Rome, not then, not since, and definitely never like Elissa.

Far above the horizon, Tanith seemed to agree with his mother. And Elissa -- 

The sound of someone speaking Latin shocked him out of his reverie.

"Hannibal, you must sleep," Publius repeated. He came to lean on the railing next to Hannibal. The wind was strong and favourable this night, sails full and Publius' hair whipping around his head. His mouth was set in a thin line, but his grey eyes smiled a Minerva smile. "There will be time for strategy tomorrow."

Did Rome plan war on Carthage? Hannibal would not put it past the Senate, especially now that the war with the Seleucids was over. The war had cost Hannibal his eye but earned him his freedom. A more than even trade, but still, he had not been unhappy to learn it was over. He had fought for Rome for his mother's sake, that she not become a war-slave twice over in her lifetime, but it had been bitter ashes in his mouth. He would not stand for Rome against Carthage, not in war.

"As you order," Hannibal finally told Publius.

Publius' face fell. "That wasn't -- I didn't -- I'm sorry."

Hannibal smiled at Publius a Minerva smile of his own. Publius' blush deepened and he looked away. Hannibal went below deck to sleep until the morning.

They made landfall in the morning. The Carthaginian delegation was waiting on the shore. The person at the forefront was a priestess of Tanith wearing heavy robes of deep purple and holding a golden standard. Carthage's wealth made manifest for all the world to see.

Hannibal's gaze went to the rest of the delegation and his breath caught in his chest. His mother stood on the shore, her hair pulled up in the traditional way she had only ever before worn when they had been alone. She lifted her head, shifting her gaze to his. His mother had had black eyes. The woman's eyes were a light shade of brown, almost golden in the dawn.

She was close to his mother, but not identical to his mother, he now noticed. She was his age, perhaps a few years older, and younger than he'd ever known his mother.

A sister. He had _a sister_.

She was introduced as the leader of the delegation, Ummashtart Barca, widow of Hasdrubal, daughter of Hamilcar. Publius' eyes slid towards Hannibal at that. His eyes fell away as his hand fell from his gladius. They would talk later, Hannibal knew, but for now there was Carthage to deal with.

It was a trade deal, Iberian silver against Roman steel. It went back and forth the whole morning and well into the afternoon, until they broke for the day in the early evening.

"Walk with me," Ummashtart told Hannibal. She spoke Greek still, as though she did not believe he spoke the language of their ancestors.

"Of course," he replied in Phoenician, his accent so thick he could have stepped out of the gardens of Megara yesterday.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Publius nod. Something in him bristled at the sight; he was a free man, he did not need permission to talk to his sister.

There was a garden of orange trees outside the meeting house. The two of them walked until they were surrounded by nothing except the smell of orange blossoms. There was stone bench under the shade of the largest tree. He waited for her to sit before he did. 

"You look so much like mother," Ummashtart said. She waved a hand in the general area of his face. "The nose. The hair. the way you hold your head." She had a faint smile and a faraway look in her eyes. "When you talk you have her accent, even in Greek, even in Latin -- I did not realise how much I missed it, I missed her, until I heard you."

Telling her how much she reminded him of their mother had been Hannibal's plan for an opening. It seemed weaker now, but he told her anyway.

"Hamilcar used to say that." Not even the sweet-smelling air eased the bitterness in her voice. "Do you remember him?"

"Not really." In truth, Hannibal thought of Ba'al as having his father's face, but they were as distant and alien to him, unknowable and unfeeling.

"He's dead," Ummashtart said. She dropped it like a stone in a lake and it had as much impact, a handful of ripples then gone. "That makes you the head of the family."

"No," Hannibal said.

"No?"

"No. I've never been to Carthage. This the first time I've been west of Italy. I would not know how to head a Carthaginian family, much less ours," Hannibal said.

She gripped his chin hard, forcing him to look at her. Her hands were callused. She let go. "You speak true." She paused. "Tell me. What brings you here, on the tail of a Roman?"

There were no answers that would not sound childish or foolish. he settled for a truth. "I saved his father's life, once. It earned me my freedom."

She had snarled when he had mentioned saving the elder Scipio's life and her snarl had frozen when he had mentioned winning his freedom. "Your freedom? Mother?"

"She lives free," Hannibal said. She had remained in Rome for his sake as a child, he had remained for her sake in her old age.

Ummashtart breathed out a long, shaking sigh that came from her core.

"Mama!" A child barrelled out of the trees, making a beeline for Ummashtart. The child climbed on her lap and turned to Hannibal. "Who are you?"

"Hanno, this is your uncle Hannibal," Ummashtart said. "Say hello."

"Hello," Hanno said. Now bored, he turned back to his mother. "Mama! Mama! There was a bird! A big one! A gold one!"

The priestess of Tanith appeared then, running after Hanno. "Ummashtart, I'm so sorry -- He ran off -- I -- "

"I know how he is," Ummashtart said. "Hanno, what did I tell you?"

"No running off," Hanno said.

Ummashtart handed him to the priestess. When their hands brushed against each other, Ummashtart blushed and let her hand linger. The priestess looked at her like she'd hung the moon, the sun and all the stars besides.

"Bye!" Hanno waved at his mother and Hannibal as the priestess carried him away.

"My son," Ummashtart said.

"Mother hated Hanno," Hannibal said. Ummabaal had often said Hanno had been the cause of Carthage's defeat in the war. She had spoken with such hatred when she had said the name -- not even Rome had warranted such scorn from her.

"So did Hamilcar," Ummashtart said. "Why do you think I named my son that?"

"Why did you? How did you?" Hannibal asked.

She spat. "This is not _Rome_. A mother's right to name her child is absolute. As for why I did... I was owed one victory against my father, one victory against my husband." She breathed out, slowly, pushing down in the air from her shoulders to her waist at the same time. "But that is ancient history. They are both dead and I am alive."

And she loved the priestess as Hannibal could see himself come to love Publius, one day, maybe. He asked, "Are you happy?"

She was taken aback, for a moment.

"Yes." She smiled, softly, almost shyly. It was their mother's secret smile.

"That is all that matters," Hannibal said. He stood.

She followed him up and he followed her out of the garden. There they found Hanno, chased by Publius waving his arms and imitating the cry of an eagle. Hanno was laughing delightedly. Even the priestess looked happy.

All that was missing was his mother.


End file.
